


Volatile Memory

by Arcanista



Series: Holding Pattern [7]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Departure from Genocide Route, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family, Gen, Genocide Route, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Recovery, Unicode Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans hits the books and comes across some unusual information. Something unpleasant must be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _They’re off to find the hero of the day_   
>  _But what if they should fall by someone’s wicked way?_

 

_Mid-Afternoon._

The tall one has a lot of shampoo for someone with no hair. They wonder if that's magic too, but decide that it isn't. They pick out one of the bottles and sort of squint at the label. The big rectangle robot from the TV takes up most of the space, only somehow it has hair? That probably isn't magic, either. They try and read the bottle but the front is all in handwriting and they're still not very good at that. The sparkles that make the letters even fancier don't help, either. So they look at the back and sigh. On that side is tiny tiny writing they have to squint to read and even then they have some trouble.

Not that reading it helps much. They don't know what 'flowing bishounen locks' are and they're not even sure they know how to say it. But it's the bottle that's the most full, and if they're going to be borrowing shampoo, it feels least weird to pick on that basis. Still feels kinda weird. What if he minds? He _won't_. But what if he does?

Well, they wash their hair anyway. It's nice to shower, even if the water feels stingy on their head and where all their cuts are healing up. But it doesn't feel that bad when they poke those spots, so that's good, right? Sore, and there's still angry red lines left behind but not that bad. Easier to breathe here, too, where it's all hot and steamy.

Feels okay, really. Not sure what to do with that feeling. Not sure if it's right. They try not to worry about it, try to finish up before their fingers get all pruney. They don't quite manage it, but it's not too bad.

Towel is big and fluffy and soft and gets them dry all over really fast. Isn't scratchy at all. All the towels used to be scratchy, once. When? They rub their forehead with the corner of the soft towel. Before here. Somewhere else.

Next comes clothes, pants and cozy socks and old sweatshirt that's too long but with arms shortened and cuffs tightened so they stay close at the wrists and don't hang past. Too much work to make it fit, but it's got stains that look older than they are, and the elbows are almost worn through and the inside is covered in tiny little fluffballs. So at least nobody ruined anything nice for them.

They wonder whose it was, and scrunch their face up, trying to figure it out. Short one, they decide. Tall one's shirt would be even longer and less baggy. Still baggy, but not this baggy. It's okay, though. There's enough room to stick their knees inside and have it come all the way down to their ankles. Well, if they're sitting down, anyway. It's cozy.

Never figured skeletons would be so good at being cozy. Well, always figured skeletons would be scary. And they are, kinda, especially the short one sometimes. But they're not _mean_. Nothing's meaner than people, anyway.

They slip out of the shower room (they're still not sure what monsters call it. It's not a bathroom, but what else do you call it? They could ask, but they don't want to feel dumber) and go to the living room.

Oh, everyone's watching TV. They walk around the edge of the room to get a peek. The big rectangular robot is talking to a tall bunny about a baby, they think? They can't really follow. Too many names. They look at the couch for space and bite their lower lip when they see the spot between the skeletons is filled up with a big bowl of chips.

Well, they don't want to say anything. Chips are important, and all. They bite their lower lip, hanging out by the wall. Maybe they could sit down in front. Oh, but they shouldn't get in the way of the TV.

"Hello, human!" The tall one waves at them as soon as they notice. "Why're you standing all the way over there! Come and watch, we're just about to find out who the mother of ̶̷̸̲̅M̶̷̸̲̅e̶̷̸̲̅t̶̷̸̲̅t̶̷̸̲̅a̶̷̸̲̅t̶̷̸̲̅o̶̷̸̲̅n̶̷̸̲̅'̶̷̸̲̅s̶̷̸̲̅ baby is!"

That... that clearly isn't right. Is it? They start to open their mouth, but the short one sticks a finger up in front of his teeth, the weirdest 'ssh' they've ever seen. They giggle.

The short one lifts the bowl of chips up and pats the spot underneath. "C'mon, get comfy," he says. "My money's on, the, uh, yeah, that one, in the stripes."

They wait a few seconds more, but there's no sign of the chips being put back down. So they duck in front of the tall one (did they really need to do that?) and climb up onto the couch, snuggling in between the skeletons. The short one puts the chips back down, on their lap. They look down at the chips and then up at the TV. They do see someone wearing stripes.

"Have some chips, kiddo," says the short one, sticking his hand into the bowl. "They were out of helicopter flavour at the store."

"S̶̷̸̲̅a̶̷̸̲̅n̶̷̸̲̅s̶̷̸̲̅..."

"... so I just got plain." He snickers, and eats another handful.

They glance at both the skeletons, and reach into the bowl, pulling out a single potato chip. They nibble at the edge and watch some more as the rectangle robot does some big important work proving the one in the stripes didn't steal... something, and then stops to sing a song about... about... They lean forward, squinting. Their lips move slowly as they work it out. How hard it is to be a... rockstar lawyer racecar driver who doesn't know who's having his baby? Makes their head hurt.

When the commercial happens, they think about asking for help figuring out what's going on, but the tall one looks right down at the big bowl of chips and says, "I don't think we should be feeding the human such greasy food!"

They feel their cheeks burn, and they lower their half a potato chip, not sure what to do with it. Can't put it back in the bowl, but...

"C'mon, some chips aren't gonna hurt the kid," says the short one, taking some for himself. "Anyway, grease is good for kids. Keeps their coat nice and shiny, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and all that."

"That's dogs!" The tall one stamps his foot on the ground and turns to waggle his finger at the short, sort of right in their face. "We should be feeding the human healthy food! Like... like vegetables! And spaghetti!"

The short one shrugs. "So we're agreed on burgers, then? Burgers've got vegetables on them."

Tall one makes a weird sort of noise, like a scream but not loud. Well, not screaming loud. "Oh my god no, we are not agreed, S̶̷̸̲̅a̶̷̸̲̅n̶̷̸̲̅s̶̷̸̲̅!" He looks down at them. "Hmph. Human! Which is better for you! Burgers or spaghetti!"

"Um." They look back and forth between the two skeletons. Short one gives a thumbs-up. Tall one squirms. They bite their lower lip. "Um. Yes?"

"Exactly!" Tall one punches his hand. "Spaghetti it is, then! And I've decided, human. _You_ will help me make the sauce today! An important part of becoming a better person is cooking, and it's finally time for you to make this step!"

Loud whisper in their ear. They think the tall one's actually supposed to hear it? "Don't worry, kid, I'll make the order in advance. This one might even call for cheese fries."

The tall one makes another sound, but even though they're fighting with each other, it seems okay. They lift their chip back up and finish it, then take another one out of the bowl. Glance side to side, then take some more nibbles.

Squished cozily between the skeletons, listening to them argue about dinner, watching the big rectangle robot slow dancing with a turtle lady, eating potato chips one by one, it's nice and warm.

It feels like something they've never had a word for.

* * *

_Well past midnight._

These aren't his notes. It's strange, because he _remembers_ taking them. Very clearly, as it happens. They're in his handwriting. More or less. Wait, are they?

Sans lowers his head closer to the page, as if looking even more closely at the years-old ink and pencil will somehow extract answers from the paper. He squints at the proofs and the formal logic and the convolutions, and the explanations scrawled around the symbols and numbers done in cheery turquoise blue pen.

And he knows the material. That much he doesn't question. The math is just too complex to be coming from anywhere weird. There's comfort in that, in the math that transforms the corkscrewed temporal vectors ("We need another name for these guys, only supposed to be _one_ angle between a pair of 'em. What do you think?") into a single straight timeline. This he knows, can do it by hand well enough that ̼̩͈͉̞͈̥̑ͫͥ̌̉̉̓͆̀ ̡̪͈̳̳̘̫̐̾ͪͭ ̴̴̧̦̹̙̲̓̋̅͒̄͛ ̛̩̜̝̫͚͋̊ͣ̊ had him spend a full week going over the output any time a new version of the conversion code got pushed. The space behind his sockets throbs.

He'd stopped objecting to what felt like busywork when a typo in someone's math threw off a month's worth of prognostication.

So none of _those_ memories are retroactive, as far as he can tell, and he's about as good at telling these things as anyone can be. But he's positive that, memory be damned, he did not write this.

Sans follows an arrow and turns the page for the continuation of the proof. Something does catch his eye, finally, as he looks over the notes all written in black ballpoint pen. It _isn't_ his handwriting. It's close. But the lines are too straight, a little too thin, circles a little too round. He wouldn't have noticed at all if he hadn't been explicitly looking.

Definitely his work. Definitely not his notes. Sans leans his back against the wall, mattress springs creaking as he moves. Fakery subtle enough that pretty much only he would notice it. Of a subject that only he would understand, and nondisruptive to his awareness of it. So this interference, at least, is benign for the moment.

The next page of notes is done in green pen, and there he pauses. He flips backwards, looking at the text. The equations are always done in pencil, of course, and the paper is well-stained from erasing. But the notes are all done in green gel pen. They've always been done in green gel pen.

But had they always been done in green gel pen five minutes ago?

"Welp, you got my attention," Sans says aloud. His bedroom's dead quiet, the bare walls making for almost an echo. The soundproofing goes both ways; with the locks engaged the only way to hear in or out is to be some sort of meta-spatial entity. Which he'd assumed was never really going to happen, before the kid's passenger reared its ugly head. And of course a meta-temporal being can do what it wants, when it wants.

But of course nothing happens. And Sans feels ridiculous. He goes back to flipping through the notes written in blue felt-tipped pen. And he comes up with nothing interesting besides a good refresher on his five-dimensional math by the time he gets to the end of the section. He scratches an itch, trying to decide if he should keep going or go get a snack or something.

Meh. He thinks he's got half a chocolate bar somewhere around here. Sans reaches out his left hand, sweeping his attention around the room. And, yeah, there, he sees the glint of a crinkled wrapper hiding underneath the dresser. The left side of his vision stains with a blue glare until he feels a half a chocolate bar slam into his hand. Sans peels the wrapper back and finishes the thing off. He tosses the shiny plastic onto the ground afterwards, where the slow pull of gravitation starts drawing it towards the tornado.

Good enough. Sans flips to the beginning of the next section, and stops short. Whatever's been fiddling with his notes has stopped pretending: he's _never_ encoded his notes before, and this code is pictographic.

He knows the code. Has always known it. Whether he's _always_ always known it, he hasn't got a clue. Sans reaches for his fresh notepad, turns to a clean sheet-- then in the corner writes 'blue rollerball', pinning the words exactly into the edges of the page so there's not even a hair of extra space. Might not help at all, but it makes him feel better this second. Then he starts transcribing.

* * *

_Noonish._

They like the red crayon, they decide. Next to pick a picture to colour in. They settle on a page with a smiling bunny playing catch with a turtle, and start carefully colouring the turtle's hat bright red. They even stay inside most of the lines. Then, hmm, what's a good bunny colour? They pick up the crayons one at a time, turning each one over between their fingers. Maybe burnt sienna. But where is it? They hold the crayons really close up to their nose so they can read the names, and frowns when they don't find the right colour for a bunny.

Shuffling coming from behind them. Short one, then. The tall one stomps. They smile a little at themselves. Getting a bit better at remembering. Maybe he knows what a good bunny colour is. "Um."

"Heya, kid," says the skeleton, sitting down next to them on the floor. "What's up?"

They spread the crayons out on the floor so they're all easy to see. "Which?" They point to the bunny's fur. Still hard to put words together, one after another. But nobody minds.

He looks over the crayons, poking them around a little with one bony finger. "Huh, seems like you mind need something like burnt... oh, cr-- ud. I should've realized."

Look up, squirming, feet kicking in the air. Something bad, what did they do? They bunch backwards just a little bit, teeth on lip, fingers curling toward palms.

Skeleton puts his hand on their shoulder, squeezes lightly. Something strange about his voice. "Nah, it's my fault. I swapped out some of the colours when I picked up those crayons. Figured burnt sienna was boring, so I put in... uh, electric blue, I think, instead."

"Oh." They bite their lower lip a little harder. Boring, then. Just wants to colour boring. They pick up the crayons and let them fall into the box. Then-- oh, hands, getting picked up, put on lap. Getting hugged now, everything all warm and soft. They wait a second, then lift their arms and hug him back.

"Don't cry, kiddo." He rubs at their eyes, catches the little bits of wet before they fall. "I thought it'd be more fun, that's all. I don't colour much. Didn't know you needed colours like that. I'll grab you a fresh box next time I'm out."

They take a breath and they nod. Hard to want to cry like this. Feels like he'd be sad if they did. They don't think they want that. Another big breath.

One more rub at eyes, then he looks somewhere else. Long, long wait before he pats their back. He says, "Anyway. There's something I needed to talk to you about. Can you look up at me for a second?"

They curl their fingers up tight in the soft hoodie and lift their head, slowly, looking up at him, right in the skull-face. Still smiling, always smiling, but his eyes aren't. They look back at the ground after a second or two.

"All right, so I finally got around to getting that dust from the forest back to the right people," he says. They hold on a little bit tighter, and he squeezes them closer when he notices. "Most of them, that and knowing nobody else is gonna get hurt, that's enough for them. But one of them does want to talk to you. You don't have to."

They look back up at him all on their own. They turn what he said all over in their head, slow and careful and put their cheek against his shoulder. Right now, like this, it's easy to take the bad thoughts: _doing this to punish, doing this to make it hurt, doesn't_ know _nobody's gonna get hurt, doing it cause he's disappointed, doing it because--_ all of them, it's easy to take all of those and mush them up into a ball and roll them away. It'll roll back, but right now, they hug onto him tighter and he squeezes back and right now he's a bigger ball. Finally, they say, "But should."

"Probably do you both good," he says, loosening his arms a little. "It's not gonna be fun. But I'll go with you. You can do it."

Big breaths. Big, big breaths. "Okay. When?"

Closes his eyes. "Maybe later this afternoon, tomorrow? I need to check with her and all. You sure you're up for it, kiddo?"

"No." Word comes easily. "But should."

A low little laugh. He opens his eyes again. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. We good to let you go? I should make some calls. I'll let you know when we're going to do this."

They nod, and he lifts them back onto the ground. He gets up, and they look through the crayons again, looking at the blue ones, carefully reading the names. Maybe electric blue is a good bunny colour after all. Monster bunnies can look like whatever they want.

* * *

_Early Evening._

They're all bundled up in an old blue jacket, scuffed and lumpy with little feather-ends poking through the lining, way too big for them but that's just cozier. The sleeves fall over their hands, making sure even their fingertips are warm. Holding onto his hand tightly, snow crunches underneath them. Other hand holding a soft draw-string bag. Shaking.

"How're you doing, kid?" he asks. Start up a front walk. "You can still back out if you wanna."

"No," they say. Look up at the door ahead. Big breaths. "Can't. Stop asking."

Skeleton stops walking, turns them by the shoulders to face him. "Yeah, you can. You chose to do this. I'm not being pedantic, kiddo. It makes all the difference in the world." Squeezes. "But you did choose. I'll stop asking. Let's go." He lets go, and they go up to the door.

They look up at the door. Ordinary door. Lift their left hand, pull back the sleeve, and they knock. One-two-three. Cheeks burn as hand drops. Big breaths. Other hand sweats holding onto bag. Knees shake a little, do want to run. Waits. Should knock again maybe? Should just go? Don't know. They don't know.

Door opens. Not sure what they expected, but it's a lady in a flowery dress. She looks like she's made of ice, and on her head is a nice hat with a shiny buckle on it. She just looks down at them, looks and looks and looks.

"Um," they say. They should look at her. Remember to breathe. Bag slips in their hand. "Um." They hold up the bag for her. She takes it, doesn't look at it. Holds onto it.

"You're even younger than he was," she says, looking down at them. She talks like she's somewhere else. They don't know what to say. They remember that they need to breathe. She stares at their face. They do their best to not look away. They stop their head from moving. "Why did you kill my son?" she asks.

Swallows hard. Closes eyes, tries to think back. Plastic knife, dented, hard to use, hands moving on their own. Sees old glove in bottom of box. Pulls it on. Knows how to use it, better than the knife.

Starts out like someone else's body. Arms swinging, feet moving, all on their own. First few people, they come out of the forest and try to push them around. Makes them laugh and thinking back, they think the laugh was their own. Swing their fists themselves, and it's easy. Familiar. They've done this before, after all. Hit monsters harder than people, though. No room in their head to wonder why. Anyway, easier to just be angry.

How do you know when to stop when there's no blood? Everything crunches away to dust. Makes it easier. Gets easier every time. They're the one moving now. On the doorstep, they shudder and close their eyes. Think. Which one was he? So many of them. Back of their head hurts a little from thinking too hard. Hard to get used to it. Always been hard. She never understood that. Pulls eyes open, looks up. Ice lady watching still. Takes a breath, looks at her as best they can, has to squint to be clear.

Hat. They remember a hat. They remember their fist in a face, a horrible cracking noise, and then they pulled the hat off his head. They remember hearing crying. Put the hat on their own head and giggled as it melted into their hair. Who was giggling? They don't wanna remember. He looks ready to run, so they hit him again, harder. Then just dust everywhere, all on their hands, on their shirt, on their shoes. They walk away, and they're smiling. Someone's smiling.

They make a little noise, gulping at the air. Feel their eyes get wet. Shouldn't cry about this, not in front of her. Shouldn't cry in front of a mom. Moms die if you cry. Breathe again. "Mostly just..." they say, and stop. Look away, look anywhere but at her, then look at the hat. "Mostly just... really scared. Thought he was gonna... was really, really scared. Um, um. Sorry, r-really sorry. Um." Face all wet now, but tries to stand steady, tries not to help the tears along.

"You were scared," she says, voice all pointy like icicles, but not cold. She watches them; they try and hide their shaky hands behind their back. Then she says, "You're a human."

"Yeah," they say.

She watches them a little longer, and says, "I've never seen a human. What they say about your souls... that they don't need love, or hope, or compassion--"

Tears come harder, shoulders shaking. Skeleton turns toward them, watching. They swallow, and tell her what they've always known. "It's true."

Can barely see her now. She says, "My grandmother saw a human once, when she was little. Being taken to the capital by the royal guard. Everyone celebrated, because that made six. The last one had to fall soon, didn't they? Everyone wanted the seventh human to come."

"Sorry." Barely even manage a whisper. "Gonna-- gonna go there and, and."

Before they can try a new sentence, she says, over their head. Voice sounds funny. "I appreciate you bringing them. But I think you should go."

"Right. Uh. Right." Rubs the back of his head. "Take care of yourself, I guess."

She makes a sound and doesn't say anything. Door shuts quietly.

They start walking home. Skeleton doesn't look at them, but picks up their hand, holds onto it. "You wanna talk about what really happened?"

"No."

"That's fair."

* * *

_?????_

There's something weird going on, and he can't understand what. That's weird right by itself. He _should_ be able to tell what's going on. He should be able to tell really easily. Everything that happens is just a variation on something that's already happened before.

At least, that was the way it worked when _he_ was doing it.

Flowey sinks his roots deeper into the soft dirt beneath him, sucking in the moisture. No, no, ever since that _kid_ just stood there and stared at his stem and let every single last bullet hit, everything's just gotten _strange_. That kid... his best friend's in there, aren't they? He twists his face up, working it into Chara's shape as best as he can remember. Yeah. That was their smile that they shot at him, the second time his mom died-- wait, the second?

Yeah, definitely the second. The first time ended in crying, pathetic, worthless crying. He'd thought about sidling up to the little brat and having a laugh-- they'd beaten and stabbed their way through everything else in the whole stupid ruins, what was one old goat? But before he could make his move, he found himself rooted beneath his mom's tree, their friend (the kid?) staring up at her house.

That was when he realized that _he_ couldn't reset anymore. And he couldn't understand how that crying weirdo could _possibly_ have more determination he did. Things became clear they kill his mom again and come up the tunnel a ways to meet him.

He'd _recognized_ that smile, could feel someone else's soul thrashing and screaming inside that familiar body. So he voiced his suspicions. "You're Chara, aren't you? We're still inseparable, after all these years..."

And they'd bowed their head toward him, smile not budging an inch. So Flowey'd continued. "Listen, I have a plan to become all powerful. Even more powerful than you and your stolen soul. Let's destroy everything in this wretched world. Everyone, everything in these worthless memories... Let's turn 'em all to dust."

They giggled at him, a laugh that made him remember things far older than the endless procession of days. "You do? So do I. We should race, once I'm done here."

The world skipped, and there they were, back in front of his mom's house again. And Flowey had no idea why-- until they passed through the door that led to the long tunnel out of the ruins and tripped, falling flat on their face. Flowey could still feel that soul, calling out to the determination suffusing him, and it wasn't thrashing anymore, but it was sobbing quietly, alone in the dark.

"You're being childish," said his best friend to no one at all. "You're really not very smart at all, are you? I guess your brains fell right out when you took that knock." They'd laughed at the air, still lying on the ground, and Flowey buried himself a bit deeper. He definitely wasn't meant to hear this, he'd figured. "Imagine how that must've looked! I guess you don't need to imagine! Oh, stop it, stop it, you won't make me cry, I'm not a baby. I'm here to _help_ you, let me prove it-- there. Does that feel better? See, you need me." They'd pushed themself back up to their feet, and dusted themself off. "Hmm? Oh, no. No, I don't quite believe you yet. One more." And the world twisted as they reset it.

Then they killed his mom one last time, only they waited. They waited until the last _possible_ second, and Flowey decided not to watch it. He had somewhere else to be, some other things he needed to be doing. But when they walked down the hall one final time, they'd been smiling, and they said, even though he was buried under the ground out of sight, "Be seeing you, Asriel."

And that stolen soul was silent.

Things had been pretty boring after that. Flowey could feel his best friend's presence as they moved through the forest, even if they'd stepped back to let the useless little meatbag do the punching. Still, his best friend'd been in there still. He could recognize that presence anywhere at all. Makes him want to-- nah. That's dumb. Almost as dumb as how they'd let the airhead take over. He'd had a good long laugh at that.

But they'd managed to talk a couple times after that-- nothing special. Nothing important. "Once I can reset, we can race, okay? I'll wear it down. Quick, get outta here before it wakes up. I don't wanna have to forget you."

But then he stuck his roots in it and tried to help one night, and they stopped going outside alone. And there he was, all alone again. He kept an eye on the lot of them after that, but his heart wasn't really in it. His friend had been _right there_ , and he couldn't do anything about it, couldn't talk to him, couldn't even see them anymore. 'Cause whoever was riding around on Papyrus' shoulders or walking holding Smiley Trashbag's hand was _not_ his friend. But at least he could still tell they were there, inside the nameless idiot and that was better than nothing.

Then Undyne came and he watched in the distance and he could _feel_ his friend right there, pushing and throbbing against the soul, and he was _sure_ that they'd break free of whatever prison that idiot had made. Except then they snuffed right out at the end, and he couldn't feel them at all anymore.

Flowey digs his roots even deeper, petals wilting forward. He can feel something, maybe. But it's hard to tell, it's so quiet. It could be a lot of things, and he's not exactly got the best vantage point. The idiot sticks to that trashbag like glue, and Flowey can't afford to repeat any of the circumstances that led to _those_ resets. Not with all the will for the world tied up in someone clutching for dear life onto where they are right now.

What did that worthless bag of skin do to his friend? They can't do this to him! After so many years, to have the _one_ person who understands him, really understands him-- to have them _right there_ only for them to get stolen away? It isn't right!

Flowey starts tunneling underground, still not sure where to go. He makes for the flower patch under the hole. That's always a good place to mull things over, come up with a plan. They can't stay in one place _forever_ , can they? He can't remember the last time he felt so _angry_ at anything. Being stuck here by himself, Chara so close, so unreachable. That's anger, right?

He wants his best friend back.


	2. Supplemental

**A Message That Never Existed, As of Five Minutes Ago**

 

** **

 

**A Single Text Message, Received Late in the Evening**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sorry.


End file.
